Vertigo
by gingercake
Summary: "Molly, I need you to undress. Hastily, if convenient." Molly may have been head-over-heels for the World's Only Consulting Detective, but that didn't mean she wanted to be embroiled in one of his 'cases' - Russian hitmen had never been in her comfort zone. Then again... What was that about getting undressed? Emerging Sherlolly; Run-up to TRF.
1. Chapter One

**Vertigo**

**Chapter one**

"I trust you will acknowledge the terms of our agreement, Mr. Holmes."

Despite the comical Russian accent, Sherlock knew these - _shady businessmen - _as he would refer to them as, were not to be ridiculed.

"You mean, the terms of _your _agreement; I agreed to no such part in your little charades," Sherlock sneered, slipping on his gloves.

"Ah, but you see, Mr. Holmes, we do not require your participation for our go-ahead, only the one word which will set it in motion."

Really, thought Sherlock, these 'businessmen' were becoming tiresome.

The man who was currently talking (Sherlock had tuned him out) was Chakov, not the head of this particular branch of Russian hitmen, but a much-trusted individual nonetheless. He had an easy charm about him, but Sherlock could also detect the aura of mistrust that radiated from his steel-faced cohorts. They didn't seem to like being the ones having to listen to all his orders, and Sherlock wondered if Chakov knew this. If he did, he wasn't showing it.

Sherlock wasn't afraid of these gentlemen; but he was weary of their involvement with Moriarty. He wasn't a man to become tangled with, and Sherlock doubted Chakov knew what he was signing up for. Whatever the outcome, Sherlock didn't want any of his own... associates to become involved, especially John. Although he also pondered whether Molly would be able to hold her own when it came to Russian hitmen. Probably not.

Sherlock knew about the word that Chakov required, but he didn't _know _it. That would have been too much of a foolish notion, and would have made it easy to be revealed. No, Sherlock had instructed a trusted member of his homeless network to bring it to John, by safe means, and he would give it to someone who could keep the best secrets.

By that, Sherlock meant someone who had minimal involvement with himself, or John, or Molly or Mrs. Hudson, and so would be an adequate human 'safe'.

John had probably given it to _that woman. _Hm.

"We know who has the word," Chakov said menacingly, and Sherlock inwardly laughed at the ridiculousness of that sentence.

"Oh really?"

"Yes. Your pathologist; the mousy one. Sergei has knowledge of her whereabouts, and will be paying her a visit tonight," Chakov grinned, and raising one gloved hand, waved a silent adieu to Sherlock before swiftly departing with his suited minions.

Sherlock paid them no heed, only pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and quickly found his mobile phone.

Only one thought was going around his head:

Shit. Molly.

* * *

Molly Hooper had a date. Well, that was what a romantic dinner for two was usually defined as, except this wasn't really romantic. Therefore, she had doubts about regarding it as a date.

For starters, her 'date' hadn't even bothered to dress up for the occasion. Now she wasn't asking for a tuxedo, but turning up in a raggedy old jumper and turn-up jeans wasn't really the most romantic thing.

_No one could pull that off at a date, _she thought, _Well no one but Sher-_

That was where she had to cut herself off - to mentally slap herself, before that _damned _man infected her mind and reduced her thoughts to those of a blithering idiot, like always.

This was her chance at having normal social interactions with someone who could be... a potential boyfriend. Or if not, a chance to relieve her boredom at the very least, since Sherlock hadn't even bother to turn up at th-

There she was again. Bloody idiot. It didn't help that every time her date, (what was his name again - Jake? James? Why did men have such annoyingly common names?) opened his mouth, or scratched his head, or ate, she was... _deducing_ him. Going through every one of his stupid motions like she was on autopilot; to figure out every aspect of his life.

Honestly, what had she become? _His _protegee?

She internally sniggered at this thought, to which her date - who had been anxiously picking at his salad for the last ten minutes (now that was easy - judging by his waste line - practically non-existent - he hadn't been eating too well recently - job stress? Molly was willing to be kind) - smiled unsurely and offered something along the lines of:

"You wanna go back t'mine luv?"

Molly, barely listening, smiled blearily at him and he went back to swirling red cabbage around his plate.

Molly particularly liked this new, snarky side of her. She wondered what would happen if she tried it out on Sherlock. He'd probably raise one eyebrow, and say,

"Well, Miss Hooper, you appear to be _finally _(patronising emphasis on that) growing a backbone," in that infuriatingly condescending baritone that nevertheless always seemed to set her heart off like a piston.

"Hey, are we going back t'mine or what?" grumbled Molly's date, who had finally spoken up loud enough to break into her thoughts.

Molly looked at him with disdain. Is that all men nowadays wanted? A quick shag?

Where had she met this man?

Oh yes, now she remembered. She'd met him in the pub after work, and absent-mindedly agreed to a date because he'd seemed nice, (if a little dim - but you'd tend to think anyone was dim after spending time with the 'World's Only Consulting Detective') and might serve as a distraction from Molly's hectic mind. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he had the same hairstyle as someone she knew.

"Would you excuse me for a second?" said Molly politely, and stood up from the table, nearly tripping over her cashmere scarf, which was draped haphazardly on the back of the chair. Her date stood up abruptly and caught her by the arm, stopping her from making a show of herself.

She smiled gratefully, and he grinned, but when she had thanked him and went to adjust her dress, she found he wouldn't let go of her arm.

"Do you mind?" she squeaked, but he only tightened his grip and pointed towards the door of the restaurant.

"We best be making headway back to mine," he said, leering at Molly's face, or rather, her cleavage. Molly felt a shudder pass through her; she had forgotten just how insistent some men could be.

"I don't think so," she insisted firmly and withdrew her arm. He frowned at her lack of enthusiasm, and clattered closer round the table.

Just as she was beginning to get flustered, a flash of grey caught Molly's eye. She turned round to see someone tall, in a trench coat, approaching her.

"Sher-" she began hesitantly and blanched when her date interrupted gruffly, "No, it's Joshua."

The man approaching her turned out to not be Sherlock, but a man in a similar-style coat, who flashed a rather dapper smile in her direction. Despite him being handsome, she couldn't help the drop of disappointment in her stomach, and the physical pain that accompanied it - at the realisation that she was becoming emotionally tethered to the one man she could never have.

The man in the grey coat came right up to her, and viewed Joshua with the same look she had moments earlier. He turned his head at the gaping man and flicked his fingers, as if dismissing a servant.

"You may go." He had a slightly Russian or Slovakian twang at the end of his words, and a tone which thrilled Molly, seeming to capture the attention of whoever was listening.

"'Scuse me?" said Joshua incredulously.

"You heard me. Off you go," commanded Mr. Trenchcoat (Molly had to distinguish them somehow), and leant close to Molly's ear.

"You are Miss Molly Hooper," he said in a low tone; it was a statement rather than a question. Molly couldn't help but admire the way his tongue rolled off the r of her name.

"Um yes," Molly replied, and cringed when Joshua lumbered forward, looking like his aim was to jump in front of her and Mr. Trenchcoat in a bid to win attention. Molly felt sorry for him - he had only wanted a date, even if his needs were a little... _b__asic_.

Mr. Trenchcoat leant casually across the table, nearly knocking over Molly's wine glass. She saved it from spilling and took quite a few gulps self-consciously, before setting it back down. Joshua looked at her in surprise, probably wondering what had caused her to drink so suddenly. To tell the truth, it was something she did when she was embarrassed; like how some people suddenly burst into song to try to diffuse awkward situations.

Mr. Trenchcoat appeared to be doing arm stretches across the table, but Molly didn't dare question his odd behaviour. When he straightened himself out, he had taken her scarf with a quiet movement and handed it to her. She took it gratefully and wrapped it round her neck.

Then, she tapped Joshua on the arm.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Joshua," she said kindly, and he grumbled, "At least you remembered my name now; I dunno where you got Sherlock from."

"Huh?" she squeaked, and he replied,

"Well you was gonna call me that, weren't you? I dunno why everyone is so obsessed with some stuck-up detective block in a stupid hat..."

While Molly slowly stopped listening to his ramblings, Mr. Trenchcoat had leaned towards her in interest at the mention of Sherlock Holmes.

"May we talk privately?" Before Molly could inquire why such a dashing man would want to speak to her (she hoped he wasn't after any body parts - that usually seemed to be the reason that handsome men spoke to her) he had laid a gentle hand on her bare arm and begun to steer her away from the table, and a still-muttering Joshua.

Molly felt like a mouse trapped between two warring bears, and it didn't please her to think that way. Here she was, trying to strike out after some, quite frankly, embarrassing incidents - and she had already been caught up in something. For once, she just wanted a normal, quiet evening - not including being dragged away by tall Russians in trenchcoats.

"Excuse me," she hissed to Mr. Trenchcoat, "I don't know who you are, but if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you introduced yourself before trying to steer me away like a donkey."

Mr. Trenchcoat blinked and murmured apologetically, " I am sorry, Miss Hooper. I am Sergei; an... acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes."

Molly stifled a giggle; as well as having the accent, he had the same name as one of those endearing CGI meerkats off some advert. However, she doubted he had the same personality. There was something sinister lurking under his polished manner... And was that a a splattering of blood under his thumbnail? Molly had noticed a hint of red when he had layed his hand on her arm. Now all she needed was Mr. Holmes to tell her he was _actually _a part-time children's entertainer. She'd believe anything that man told her.

"Why do you need to speak to me? I'm sure Sherlock would be happy enough to discuss anything you wanted."

There went another muffled giggle. Honestly; what was wrong with her? She'd only drunk half a glass of the cheapest red wine Joshua had bought. She was beginning to feel weird now; drowsy, and her muscles beginning to weaken. Before they gave way altogether, she clung to the arm of Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat.

His face was spinning slightly, but she could make out a weird satisfied smirk on his face - she wanted to get away from this odd fellow. Even the company of bland-and-basic Joshua seemed tempting, compared to some sketchy man who kept insisting on talking to her.

"Miss Hooper, as I am aware, you are a colleague of Mr. Holmes. And, therefore I-"

The obnoxious prat never got to finish his sentence. For one, Molly could barely hear him, as all sounds were gradually muffling into white noise, and although she was still clinging onto his arm, she was beginning to stumble back to her table.

For seconds, the object of her affections had just strode into the restaurant, a gust of wind sending his navy scarf billowing. Sherlock flicked the collar of his Belstaff up, still managing to appear suave even though his wet hair was plastered to his face, and rivulets of water were making their way down his neck. If anything, Molly thought, it made him even more attractive.

John hurried in after him, looking a great deal more wet-doggish, and quickly caught up to Sherlock with a placid tread. He sneezed conspicuously and raised one eyebrow at the oblivious Sherlock, who was busy questioning, or more interrogating the waiter at the front desk.

Molly had noticed all of this, even in her jumbled trance, and was eager not to alert a thunderous-looking Sherlock to her presence, or John either, since at this moment she couldn't stand to be on the receiving end of one of his kicked-dog sympathy looks.

Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat, meanwhile, had also noticed their arrival, yet was still herding Molly along. She resisted by dragging her heels in like a stubborn mule, but Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat was quite insistent in his movements. So insistent, that he failed to notice Joshua standing like a half-wit in his and Molly's path. Molly noticed him of course, and she also felt him once they had all crashed to the ground, resulting in a Molly-sandwich.

Molly yelped in pain and indignation. No one wants to be squashed between a 6-foot something Russian with protruding bones, and a similarly-tall bloke with a massive belly. Molly could feel her insides being contorted, and in her weakening state, couldn't even find the strength to struggle.

This also happened to be the point at which Sherlock and John's voices rapidly approached, and then stopped, and although Molly couldn't see the pair, she could imagine the look of shock on John's face, and the resigned interest on Sherlock's.

"Is that... Molly?" came John's worried tone.

"I believe so," Sherlock stated, and then lightly snorted, "I never envisioned her doing something as foolish as engaging in a game of Twister on a restaurant floor." Despite his mocking tone, Molly could detect a hint of... worry?

Molly weakly struck out her hand at any angle, and was pleased when someone responded with a deft grasp. She hoped it was Sherlock.

Unfortunately, in trying to gather a better hold onto the person's hand, Molly succeeded in somehow dragging them off their feet, and onto the growing pile of tangled men - and woman, which responded with an _oomph. _

"Ow." Molly muttered and registered a chuckling from up on high.

"Well, Sherlock, seems you've joined in on the game too."

No answer.

_Oh, so it had been Sherlock - how odd of him to lose his footing like that,_ Molly thought, before she blacked out.

* * *

**Please R and R, and offer constructive criticism.  
**


	2. Chapter Two

**Thank you so much to everyone who responded to the first chapter, I appreciate it a lot.  
**

* * *

**Vertigo**

**Chapter two**

When Molly awoke, she found herself wading through the after-effects of what seemed like a heavy night out on the town. Except, she hadn't had a night out on the town. Not since her early twenties, at least.

She bit her lip to stifle the pounding that resonated through her head, and stretched out her aching muscles. The last thing she remembered was being in physical conflict with a load of tall blokes, and at this unwanted memory she groaned.

It took her a while to notice she definitely wasn't in the clothes she had been last night. No, she was dressed in a long, maroon shirt - expensive by the feel of it, but thankfully her underwear was still on, the hook of her bra digging into her back. She sat up to adjust it, and clutched the side of what she thought was her bed since her vision was still a little bleary.

Oh, it was a bed alright, but not hers. Her bed had a thick, quilted blanket on it, and was adorned by quite a few small teddies, whereas this one was completely plain. And grey.

The sheets were crumpled from where she had evidently been tossing and turning throughout the night.

So... it was time to figure out where she was, and why she was dressed in a man's shirt. She wasn't complaining about her attire, it smelt pleasantly of expensive soap and something else - like crisp, night air.

She smoothed the starched collar from where it was digging into her neck, and surveyed the room. It was quite plain and modest; but there was a comfortable, lived-in feel. The wardrobe doors were open, revealing a medley of similar clothes; shirts, trousers and cable-knit jumpers.

Molly sat up, and swung her legs listlessly over the edge of the bed. Standing up, her bare feet sunk into soft carpet, for which she was thankful for. She padded over to the desk next to the wardrobe, the ridiculously-long ends of the shirt flapping as she went.

Ignoring the laptop, she instead focused her attention on a photo in a gilt frame. It stood awkwardly to the edge of the desk; almost like it was ashamed to be there, and Molly wondered why. It was of a woman with blonde hair, and next to her, a younger-looking John Watson.

_So this is John's room_... Molly thought, idly picking up the photo. She couldn't find the energy to unpick why she was in _his _room, had been sleeping in _his _bed. She hoped nothing weird had happened last nigh-

The door swung open. Molly put the photo back down with a clatter and turned abruptly, to find a shocked looking Mrs. Hudson standing there, complete with feather duster in hand.

"Oh my," she put her hands up, "I'm awfully sorry, Molly." She seemed like she was aching to ask why Molly was in John's room, clothed only in a light, maroon shirt.

Molly wanted to ask herself the same questions.

"Um," she began hesitantly, "Is John around? Or... Sherlock, perhaps?"

"John is in the kitchen dear, I'll fetch him," said Mrs. Hudson hurriedly and turned to go, but not before casting Molly one last wondrous, or maybe sympathetic look.

Molly sat down on the bed, exasperated.

A few moments later, John appeared in the doorway, and said - before Molly could,

"Oh, Molly; I'm sorry you had to wake up in such a manner."

Molly had always liked John's easy, non-confrontational way, but now she just wanted someone to get straight to the point; she wasn't equipped to deal with John's cryptic words.

"Not to be rude John," she deliberated, "But why am I dressed... _like this?_"

John couldn't stop himself from also looking down when Molly did, but quickly averted his eyes, an embarrassed frown sliding across his face.

"Sherlock has gone too far this time..." he muttered, before backtracking through his bedroom door and hollering:

"Sherlock! Where are Molly's clothes?!"

Molly pursed her lips in embarrassment, unsure of how to react to John's blatant exclamation.

She became even more unsure when a minute later Sherlock hastened into the room, carrying Molly's red dressed across his arm. He stopped when he saw she was standing awkwardly in the middle of the carpet, and regarded her with cool amusement.

Molly decided to break the silence first, by adopting a defiant approach. She wasn't happy, she decided, and was in no mood to be cajoled into a meek silence by Sherlock's antisocial demeanour.

"Why do you have my dress?" she asked Sherlock. Without a word he held it out, and Molly snatched it, feeling weirdly sorry for spoiling the careful way in which it had been folded. Trust Sherlock to know she liked her clothes, even her dresses, folded neatly.

"I was analysing powder residue left on your dress. You may not remember, Molly, but last night your drink was spiked. That is why you were acting, and no doubt feeling, inebriated."

"Spiked?" Molly couldn't believe someone could have slipped something into her drink without her knowledge. She may not have had Sherlock's ability to notice everything, but she saw herself as undoubtedly observant. Then, with a groan she remembered her habit for drinking copious amounts under social pressure. Last night, when Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat had appeared as if he was leaning over the table and had nearly knocked her wineglass over, Molly had no doubt he had used that distraction as an opportunity to slip something, most likely a light sedative, into her drink.

Sherlock seemed to have read her mind, because he quipped,

"Admirable work, Miss Hooper, you seemed to have realise a sedative was used, although thankfully, not a concentrated one, otherwise one does not like to wonder the extent to which your judgement would've been clouded."

"I wish you wouldn't do that!" Molly snapped, beginning to shake out her dress.

Sherlock seemed taken-aback slightly at Molly's peevish remark, for he blinked and said,

"Do what?"

"Act all high and mighty; calling me 'Miss Hooper'. You don't have to take the moral high ground all the time, Sherlock, everyone knows you're brilliant," Molly's voice had taken on a bitter inflection by the end, which Sherlock noted.

He blinked once more and put a finger to his chin.

"I'm sorry you see me that way," he said, slowly and with some measure of apology. Molly immediately felt as if she just kicked a puppy, and sighed.

At that moment John came back in, carrying a steaming bone china cup of tea, which Molly accepted gratefully.

Then, he took one look at Sherlock's pious expression, and said to him,

"No, no, no, Sherlock. I know that expression; and believe me, whatever Molly's telling you off about, you definitely deserve it. Don't try to wheedle your way out of being wrong - I'm sure it won't work on Molly."

However, after his strict reassurance, he turned to see Molly's regretful face, and his shoulders stooped.

"I should've known she'd be taken in by it..." he muttered, and Molly face switched to apologetic. John threw his hands up, and after mumbling something about not being able to deal with the pair of them, he stalked out of the room. Sherlock watched him go impassively, the pious look having vanished the moment John scolded him. Molly got the feeling he was secretly plotting John's murder.

"Why are you so crestfallen Molly?" Sherlock ventured, running the robe of his silk dressing-gown through his fingers. Molly could see he was distracted, and almost certainly slowly retreating to the recesses of his mind palace.

"Hm?" she asked gently, knowing it could be a while before Sherlock replied - that was if he didn't forget what he had been saying first.

To her wonder, he snapped out of his reverie and observed, though Molly thought it was brazen of him to say so,

"Well, judging by your current measurements, you appear to have lost four pounds in the last month."

Molly's eyes widened and she felt a wave of distress pass over her at the knowledge Sherlock had noticed something so... personal. It also hurt to know he would think it as unimportant as doing the washing-up to think about the impact of that observation. How she would feel, as a woman, to have numbers rattled off about her like she was livestock - that must have been how Sherlock saw her, with all the emotion of a brick wall.

It made her angry, and hurt - though she knew she was foolish to be so. Usually, she was fine knowing Sherlock's character, but that was when they only had the odd conversation in the morgue, and she was too caught up in the work, or Sherlock's dominating profile as he hunched over his microscope.

But when it seemed for a moment like he had a genuine interest in her, or could remember she had a life outside of her pathology; well then, it made Molly's week.

She had been amazed when they'd come to the restaurant (did they know she had a date? Had Sherlock come to passionately break apart any chances of other romance? Ha. In her wildest dreams), and hoped it hadn't been a coincidence.

Now she didn't know how to act, with the knowledge Sherlock has so casually taken down her me-

Wait. How did he know them? Like a little child, Molly looked down at herself, clad in the maroon shirt, and it occurred to her she hadn't dressed herself in that.

"Did you...?" she turned to Sherlock, faltering in horror.

"Don't worry, Molly - it was simply a necessity so that I could examine the residue left on your dress," he said mildly.

"So you, _undressed _me? And you saw me, in my, in my-"

"Calm down. I _am _familiar with the parts of the female anatomy," Sherlock stated.

"That's not it!" she hissed, rounding on him. His head tilted a little in confusion as to why mousy little Molly Hooper was going off like a spitfire.

How could she explain to a man whose only concern in life was to solve his cases that she wasn't a rag doll, or something that he could unpick, unravel and detail to the far corners of his mental filing-cabinet?

She wanted to show him that although she appreciated what she knew was his way of taking care of her, she couldn't accept being bandied around from one obsolete realm of his mind to the next; she was either important to him, or she wasn't. He couldn't keep dancing around expressing how much she meant to him as a person, or as a simply a means of obtaining fast-entry to the morgue.

"I need to change," she informed him, and blinked sadly as he swept from the room, muttering to himself about 'benzodiazepines and the effects of common analgesics'.

She was never, she concluded, going to get far with making herself understood to this man.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, she was dressed and ready to depart from 221B. She was reluctant to give back the maroon shirt, since it smelt so nice, and so dared to stuff it in her bag.

Molly grinned to herself at her recklessness and decided she didn't care what Sherlock felt; he probably knew why she had taken it anyway. She would give it back some other time - she was sure he had plenty of them.

She wandered into the quiet and empty living-room, making her way over to the mirror that hung above the fireplace. She surveyed her reflection, noting how pale and zombified she was; not unlike one of the 'occupants' of the St. Barts morgue.

Her wide brown eyes were watery and her pathetic side plait straggling by the amount of times it had been shifted from one shoulder to the other. Molly shook her head and resolved to discreetly leave 221B before any more unfortunate run-ins with its residents, so she could get home and have a long soak in the tub.

It was as she turned away that she noticed the slip of paper dangling precariously off the mantelpiece, next to what she supposed was Sherlock's, eerily-grinning skull. She pushed the note back into a more secure position, but couldn't help from reading the hastily scrawled block capitals.

"Sherlock: Message from T.W," she read, "No signs reported here (Rus.). Dinner (Euphemism?)?"

Of course it was all double-dutch to Molly, who couldn't understand a word, but she decided to be like Sherlock for once, and file the words away. She knew it wasn't really any of her business to read notes that John had meant specifically for Sherlock, but then he had deemed his business to note certain things about her, so why couldn't she do the same?

Molly turned away, intending to grab her bag and make that hasty exit, nearly bumping into a bustling Mrs. Hudson in the process.

"Oh! I'm sorry love," Mrs. Hudson said, clutching Molly's arm. She was appreciative of the old lady's kindness and concern, having been lacking in that area for the last few hours. At the same time, her once-dormant mobile began beeping insistently, and she excused herself from Mrs. Hudson politely, who whispered, "See you again soon, dear," while Molly went to the front door.

She stopped and unlocked her phone, seeing that there was a new message from one of her friends, Mary Morstan. It read: _Where are you? Have been ringing your home for last hour - lunch off now? xxx_

Molly grimaced in guilt, remembering the lunch date she had arranged with Mary later that day. More guilt surfaced at the fact she had no intention of going, since she looked like she hadn't slept for a week, and felt like it too. She texted a quick apology to Mary along with many promises to meet up again soon.

221B's black door loomed in front of her menacingly, as she tried to open the complicated lock. She was struggling when John came up behind her, and said gently,

"Sorry about that, Molly, it's was Sherlock's idea to install that lock, of course he got me to do it. Does my head in, to tell the truth." He asked no questions about her leaving, which she was grateful for, and then helped her to undo the lock.

Stepping outside, she said to him,

"Say thanks to Sherlock for me, won't you, John?" and then turned away before he could reply. She didn't feel in the mood for a long-winded explanation of Sherlock's actions at the restaurant; she had enough on her mind already.

John watched her go for a moment, that shuffled back inside, contemplating the benefits of a good cup of tea. That was if Sherlock had remembered to get the milk for once.

* * *

Back at her flat, Molly fed a persistent and grumbling Toby, before starting to run a bath, anticipating the steam that rose invitingly from the gushing hot tap.

In the kitchen, she placed the post in its daily place on the table, noticing with dread a heavy, oddly-sealed-with-wax envelope. It simply read, _Molly._

_It must be from great-aunt Ethel, _she thought with horror, remembering how her old battle-axe of a relative occasionally sent her ostentatious invites to come to tea, or family functions. She shuddered at the prospect, and made sure that it would be a long time before she touched the thing, by tucking it deep into her letter-stand.

Now, her bath was waiting; a final relief from the unusual day of waking up at 221B Baker Street with an ex-army medic and a high-functioning sociopath in residence.

* * *

**Please R and R and offer constructive criticism, or point out any typos, if you please!**


	3. Chapter Three

**Vertigo**

**Chapter three**

"Molly, pass me the petri dish if you may," Sherlock instructed, peering over the lense of his microscope at the shadowy, bustling figure on the other side of the lab.

"Well, uh, actually I'm using it at the moment, Sherlock," Molly said, maneuvering herself around a large, ancient x-ray machine residing in the corner.

"As I'm sure you're aware Molly, my study is of great importance and I require immediate use of the petri dish," Sherlock said, his brows furrowing.

Molly noted how he looked like a small, cute child on the verge of a teary tantrum, and how his speech seemed to become even more eloquent and almost melodramatic.

"I'm sorry, but _I'm _using it," she said firmly once more. Sherlock scowled and sliding off his stool, inched closely towards her. Molly held her ground, not allowing herself to be distracted by the swishing of his slightly-more-open-than-usual starched shirt collar as he advanced.

Soon, he was standing directly over her; Molly could feel herself shrinking under his fierce gaze but then, thought to herself, _why should a man who expected to get his every need attended to get away with it all the time? _

Not this time.

"Give it to me," Sherlock said imperiously, holding out his palm.

"No." Molly swiped the petri dish and hid it behind her back, giving him a sort of challenging grin.

"I will not be cajoled into such childish games, Molly," scowled Sherlock, nevertheless peering behind her white lab coat. Molly tried not to notice how closely he was breathing down her neck.

It went on for a couple of minutes; Molly staring stubbornly into space while Sherlock attempted to pry the petri dish from her fingers. It was funny, he thought; he hadn't noticed how defiant Molly could be, and this reflected in the absurd amount of strength she was exerting in order to keep hold of the petri dish. His mind flashed back to the days when complementing Molly's hair would get her into a spin. Though he hadn't felt the need to use that trick for a while, it wouldn't hurt to recall it once more.

He dropped his tone.

"Molly, I couldn't help but notice your hair is looking... rather stylish today," inwardly he cringed at his ridiculous use of adjective.

He expected Molly to turn starry-eyed, but instead, all he registered was a muffled sniggering.

"Hm?" he said, looking at her laughing face.

"Sorry Sherlock, but you've pulled that one enough times for me to know it's a trick," Molly shook her head.

Suddenly, her eyes brightened, and with bated breath, she leaned close to Sherlock, aware of his sudden, involuntary flinching. There was a strange aura of vulnerability radiating from him while she hesitantly reached out with her hand and touched the skin above his collar, just beneath his Adam's apple. His blue eyes were shot through with wariness - a calculating sort, as if he was anticipating her every movement like she was a trained assassin - and something else. Unsureness.

Molly knew Sherlock was confident when it came to most things. John had once confided in her although he had the most amazing intelligence, when it came to things he didn't deem worth knowing, he was clueless. For example, the Solar System. And now it appeared: interaction with a member of the opposite sex.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock's voice was low.

"Your collar is hitched up," Molly breathed, and moved closer to turn it back up. Every time her fingers touched his neck a jolt went through her while Sherlock recoiled into himself, eyes growing wider by the second. Eventually he backed up into the table, but Molly kept on advancing; closer, closer, until...

Sherlock leaned in too. His eyes swirled like the sea and Molly could hear his forceful breathing.

"Molly," he murmured, and she could hardly breathe, and it was nothing like she'd ever imagined Sherlock doing and...

"I'll be using this," he whispered into her ear and grabbed the petri disk from her quivering fingers. Straightening back up, he dusted invisible lint off his shirt and made his way quickly back to his stool, though there was now a little jaunt in the way he sauntered; Molly had seen it every so often when a case or experiment Sherlock had been debating turned out exactly like he'd planned.

_Dammit, _she thought shakily, _I'm trying to assert my confidence, not let this idiot get one over the whole time._

"What was that about?" Molly accosted Sherlock, placing her hands on her hips. He looked at her with a brazen disregard.

"Meaning?" She rolled her eyes and Sherlock noticed her thin, freckled hands bunching into the white of her lab coat. She had such a thin waist, no figure like _the women, _but still-

Sherlock let air whistle through his lips. He couldn't afford to be thinking like that - thoughts like that led to unwanted actions and complicated relationships. Not his division, as Lestrade would be inclined to say. It was time to get back to the clean-cut world of his work.

Molly was still waiting.  
"I thought you said you wouldn't play games," she said quietly.

"I wasn't," he replied, adjusting the strength of his microscope lense, "That was just a ruse; a means of achieving my goal."

"You can't go around treating people like that, you know," Molly scolded, "Taking advantage of them..."

An image of John pressing Sherlock to apologise at that unfortunate Christmas party flashed through Sherlock's mind, and he grimaced.

"I'm sorry - but everything's fine, Molly, there were thankfully no repercussions to my actions," he said, banking on Molly's tact to not mention anything to do with her feelings. It was best if he didn't know; less involvement with this mousy women who was supposed to be of little importance to him. That was all people seemed to do nowadays: worm their way into his affections, weaken his resolve and worry him with their stupid, ordinary minds that never comprehended the consequences of their actions. What had happened to the old Sherlock who didn't need anyone, and discounted messy human relationships?

"Not that you think..." he heard Molly mutter as she turned for the door. "It's my break now," came the wafting explanation from over her shoulder. Sherlock sighed and his mouth twisted; his mind involuntary flicking to _the women. _He remembered the feeling of satisfaction from her raised pulse and dilated eyes, but now he thought he understand why she had looked so sad after her weakness for him had been revealed - it had not be easy for her to admit to it.

And now, Molly. There was something changing in their dynamic, something shifting, and the catching of his breath during that encounter with her was testament to that. Sherlock was not happy. He knew himself inside out; wasn't interested in women, or ordinary things that would dull his mindset.

This was not a good development. And at the bottom of it all, Sherlock knew, he didn't want to hurt Molly. She deserved better.

* * *

Molly hurt. Her chest hurt. Her head hurt. Like a balance between a physical and mental ache - pains that radiated through her mind as well as her body. Stupid Sherlock.

Oh, she knew he had felt something. Or if not him, his body, subconsciously. Except, he would never admit it, or probably even notice it. He was like an obstinate child.

The ringing of her mobile came as a welcome distraction. She felt like she was about to bang her head against the glass windows of the corridor leading from the lab, but now she could answer her phone instead.

The caller ID read: _Sam. _Her brother. She hadn't heard from him in around a month, and it would be nice to speak to him.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Molls, what's going on?" came the familiar easy tones of her brother: so relaxed and different from Sherlock.

"Nothing much..." she filled him in on the humdrum, often mundane activities of her life, leaving out the incident with the Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat and the restaurant, and also having woken up in 221B the next day. She had more than a small inkling that he'd be concerned about who she was associating with, and she didn't want him to worry unnecessarily.

"Hey, that's great. Listen, I need a favour," his voice took on a pleading edge, and Molly sighed. Her brother was known for his fast-paced, demanding nature; to which Molly often fell victim. No wonder she was so gullible, she thought, having being subject to the persuasive inclinations of her brother while growing up.

"Yes?" she adjusted her plait in the reflection of the St. Bart's glass. In the nearmost distance, refracting light made the glass dome of the Gherkin wink lazily at her, while a tempest of pigeons flew from one perch on a building to another.

"Well, Laurie's aunt is ill - y'know she's in a hospice - and we were planning to go and visit her. The only thing is, the hospice doesn't really allow children to visit, so we were wondering..."

"If I'd look after Dylan while you went?" Molly smiled in spite of herself; she really loved spending time with Dylan, her nephew, because he was unlike any child she knew. Quiet, intuitive and sensitive. Although, she could imagine someone who had once been a child possessing some of those qualities.

"Could you?" Sam had a triumphant undertone to his wheedling, knowing now that he had his sister wrapped round his little finger at the prospect of being with her only nephew.

"I suppose..." Molly relented, knowing she had nothing planned, and coincidentally, she was due time off from the morgue; it had been building up since she'd had no need to take a holiday. It would do her good to get away from London, and Sherlock for a while - her brother lived away from it all, in Brighton.

"Great!" While her brother babbled on some more, and they made arrangements for her to leave from Kings Cross station, Molly stole a look back through the doors to the morgue.

All she could see was Sherlock dashing around his part of the lab, carrying a medley of different chemicals in test tubes. Every so often he would mutter and clink the glass test tubes together, or tip one chemical into another to produce a strange, hissing mixture.

He looked like a mad professor, Molly thought, all he needed were some wire spectacles.

Sam could tell his sister was becoming distracted.

"Hello? Earth to Molly? Is everything OK?"

"Y-" Molly was about to answer him when the doors swept open and Sherlock rushed towards her, a pair of safety goggles wedged haphazardly on his dark brown hair. It must've been a serious experiment for him to wear them, for he never usually bothered.

"Molly - break's over. I need you to give me an opinion on this covalently-bonded substance."

"Er, Sherlock, I'm on the phone," Molly whispered, covering the mobile so Sam couldn't hear. His disjointed voice wobbled through her fingers, saying something like 'Sounds like bad reception on your end!'.

Sherlock stopped and looked at her mobile dismissively, before prizing it from her fingers and saying, "Terribly sorry to interrupt your conversation, but I require Molly's assistance. Good day," before hanging up. Molly gaped at him in surprise, while he just smirked nonchalantly and grabbed her hand.

"Look at this," he insisted childishly once they were back in the lab, holding up a small bottle of clear liquid.

"That looks like an organic compound," Molly said right off the bat, and Sherlock nodded impatiently.

"Yes, I know, it's a solvent, but what is it?"

It was like he was testing her knowledge; like an easily irked school teacher who wondered why he'd taken the job in the first place.

"Er..." Molly tried to remember her university readings on the uses of various chemicals. It was hard to concentrate and remember when you had a tall, commanding bloke glaring at you holding suspicious looking concoctions.

"Come on, Molly, it can't be that hard," Sherlock tapped his free hand against his chin.

"If I could just run a few-" Molly began, but quickly stopped when Sherlock clicked his fingers.

"Butyl ethanoate, has a fruity smell; used as a synthetic flavouring - knew we'd get there in the end." Molly decided not to mention that it was Sherlock who had worked out what it was, not her. He was in that strange excited mood, where things had started to 'get interesting' (in his words) and sometimes he referred to Molly as John instead.

"What are its uses, Molly?" he queried, turning around sharply to face her, "Wait, stop there. Flavourings, covered that... as a solvent in beauty products." he murmured, whether to himself or her Molly wasn't sure.

"Molly," there; he'd remembered her presence, "You're a woman."

"Last time I checked..." Molly blushed slightly. Sherlock couldn't think why.

"You use woman's products," he said, frowning, and took hold of one of her hands. His own fingers were bony, and the taut skin over his knuckles gleamed an ivory white in the harsh overhead lighting.

Gently, Sherlock stretched out Molly's finger and appeared to be studying her fingernail.

"What are you doing?" she asked, curiosity burning alongside another sensation in her chest.

"Nail polish. Of course, nitrocellulose dissolved in a solvent: butyl ethanoate..." Molly could tell his mind was whirring because his words began to trip over themselves. He dropped her hand and she felt the warm dissipate immediately. Sherlock rushed to the tabletop, picked up what looked like a nail scraper and brought it back over.

"It's exactly what it looks like," he said no-nonsense, stretching out her finger again. "I'm going to take a sample of your nail polish and analyse it for the key components relating to butyl ethanoate." To Molly it all sounded like double dutch since she was too busy concentrating on Sherlock's firm grip on her hand. She hardly felt the light application of the nail scraper.

As soon as Sherlock was done he rushed away with the sample, a satisfied half-smile on his face.

"You can go back on your break now," he said to Molly dismissively and set to work with his microscope. Molly sighed (fast becoming her favourite habit) and turned to go.

Before she went her eye caught a flash of the brown envelope partially obscured by Sherlock's abandoned coat sleeve. It had a red wax seal, but the sight passed so quickly through Molly's mind she barely registered it.

* * *

Sherlock looked up briefly to catch a sight of the small brown-haired pathologist in her white lab coat meandering down the corridor to the other end of St. Bart's. His mouth twisted.

"Brighton..." he murmured, before returning to his work.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Hope everyone had a merry christmas :) If you notice any typos, OOCness, or whatever just leave your comments in a review please :D  
**


	4. Chapter Four

**Vertigo**

**Chapter four**

"John."

"John."

"John!"

Sherlock's incessant calling was getting on John's nerves. He was in the kitchen, preparing dinner at an absurdly late hour, all because Sherlock had insisted on the lengthy search of a beauty parlor in Soho. The arbitrary nature of Sherlock's decisions would always perplex John, but even more so the way in which himself was so compliant with them.

Now, it was his turn to do a little commanding. If Sherlock wanted something, he could come to the kitchen and ask for it. There was no way John was going to be at his beck and call.

A curly-haired, grim-faced entity wafted its way through the kitchen door. Well that was certainly what Sherlock looked like, John remarked to himself, dressed in some sort of Buddhist celestial robe.

"Really, John, curry? Don't you think it silly to remind yourself of that failed date last week by cooking the dish that your lady friend threw at you?" Sherlock launched into criticism, having given the saucepan an experimental sniff beforehand.

"That was _your fault_!" John hissed, swatting The World's Only Consulting Detective away with a wooden spoon, "You told her that her father was having an affair with his personal trainer. And that you were sure I thought her thighs resembled chicken legs!"

"I was only saving her from the further, inevitable embarrassment of a relationship with you," Sherlock tilted his head to one side and drew up the ends of his 'robe'.

John gave Sherlock an _I'm not impressed _look.

"Why are you wearing that?"

"It helps me concentrate," he replied flippantly, before pounding the table and making John flinch.

"I looked all over that damned beauty parlour and I couldn't find the correct solution of butyl ethanoate!" He folded his arms.

"Nail polish," John said, shaking his head.

"What? Oh yes, whatever," Sherlock dismissed, evidently distracted. Suddenly, his ice-blue eyes lit up.

"John, forget the curry; we're going to Molly's."

"What?" spluttered John, "But it's the middle of the night, for Christ's sake, you can't go barging into her flat at this-"

But Sherlock had already left, still wearing that infernal robe. John turned the hob off, grabbed his jacket and keys, and followed, muttering insults under his breath.

* * *

In the pitch black, it was easy for John to bump into Sherlock. Which he did several times, until he found refuge under a harsh yellow streetlamp. Sherlock remained under the second-floor window of what was apparently 'Molly's bedroom.'

John had long since given up explaining to Sherlock how illogical it was to break into the pathologist's flat, despite the detective's claims that it was more of a friendly visit. He wondered if Molly would feel the same way.

"Now, unfortunately Molly recently changed her locks due to a spate of burglaries in this street, and I haven't procured a chance to look at them, so we will have to enter via the window. As it happens one has been conveniently left open for our entrance."

John wasn't sure if Sherlock was relaying his breaking-and-entering plan to him, or the wall to which he was currently attached. As it was, John struggled to understand Sherlock's decisions on a daily basis.

Sherlock had disrobed to reveal his normal attire underneath, which John was glad for. He had had no doubt that the idiot would have got arrested traversing the streets in what looked like something from a dark cult sacrificing ritual.

"John, give me some assistance," Sherlock urged, and when John complied with a grumble, he hoisted himself up onto the first floor windowsill. Then, with lithe and limber movements, he somehow opened Molly's bedroom window wide enough to drop through. A few seconds later a hand emerged to help John clamber up, which he did so, but with considerable more effort and cursing than Sherlock; he had never liked gymnastics.

"Right," Sherlock whispered once they had emerged into... more darkness, "Let's proceed, shall we?"

John was left with a feeling of worry, especially towards Molly. Not that he was concerned for her welfare, but when Sherlock was like this, he tended to get a little... excited.

* * *

Molly was in the clutches of a dream, drowning in the helter-skelter of vivid noises and images.

She was standing in between two men; Joshua, her date from _that _unfortunate night, and Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat. Both had ahold of each of her arms, their fierce grips leaving a white, strangling imprint on her skin. Molly swallowed nervously, not wanting to alert their attention. Every so often Joshua would turn to leer at her while Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat flashed her a handsome yet sneering smile.

Finally Molly had had enough. She started to struggle, but the men took no notice. They began to argue:

"She's coming back t'mine for some fun!" whined Joshua.

"No. I have to talk privately with Miss Hooper," Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat retorted.

And so it went on. If there was one thing Molly hated, it was being ignored. Especially in her _own _dream. She cleared her throat.

"Let go of me!" she commanded, and began to struggle even more. In shock the two men lessened their grip, and Molly tried to get free, "I'm not going anywhere with either of you!" she hissed.

"Oh but you are, Miss Hooper," Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat said in his clipped, Russian accent.

Someone bound a heavy blindfold around Molly's eyes, plunging her vision into black.

* * *

"Ah, found a light," Sherlock mused, switching on a small lamp. The room was thrown into sudden yellow relief, showing Molly's sleeping form on the bed in the corner.

"Are you sure you should be creeping around Molly's flat like a burglar?" John asked Sherlock, hovering awkwardly near the heavy brocade curtains, trying to appear inconspicuous, though he didn't know who for.

"I'm not a burglar, Molly is well acquainted with me, and I only need one thing..." he whispered irritably, beginning to rummage quietly through one of Molly's drawers.

"Hey-" John insisted, but Sherlock interjected with a simple look that said, _shut-up-I'm-trying-to-work. _John gave up and sympathetically eyed the unknowing, sleeping Molly, who, in the morning, would probably wonder why her stuff had been jumbled around.

"Here!" was Sherlock's excited mutter as he picked up a small bottle of... nail polish.

John sighed and rolled his eyes; Sherlock seemed to be obsessed with the stuff.

"We can go now," Sherlock stated, moving swiftly to the window. Then, suddenly, he stopped, putting one hand in front of John.

"Wait," he murmured, and in a couple of long strides he had made his way to Molly's bedside.

"Sherlock, what on earth are y-" John was once more silenced by _the look. _He pursued his lips grumpily and strained to hear what had caused Sherlock to stop. Barely audible was the sound of Molly whimpering, followed by her tossing and turning in the bedcovers. It sounded like a bad dream.

Sherlock bent his dark head over her snowy pillow, studying her distressed face intently. For once, he almost looked... concerned. He began to methodically pull back her duvet cover, revealing sweaty hands bunched into ribbons of the fabric. His mind unwittingly flashed back to that incident in the lab where Molly's thin freckled hands had done a similar thing, and something akin to concern flashed through him. He shook his head thoughtfully, more intrigued than disgusted.

John had ambled over to Molly's bedside, curious to see what had captured Sherlock's attention.

"John, you're a doctor, look at her hands," Sherlock instructed, pointing out her fingernails in particular. Reluctantly, John studied them, but not before he had said:

"I don't know what possessed you to come here, Sherlock, but I'm sure it wasn't to give a medical examination to a _sleeping woman_!" Disbelief shone through John's face, but Sherlock dismissed it.

"Just look at her fingers," he said, and then looked expectantly at John.

"Flaking nails?" John offered, and when Sherlock didn't reply, he pulled back and stood a good distance away from the bed. Uneasiness drifted around him like a visible cloud.

Sherlock blinked, and also lifted his head up. Molly muttered quietly in her sleep at the _whoosh _of warm air that subsided after his movement.

"You're right," Sherlock said, loud enough to carry to where John was standing, but not so loud as to wake Molly, "I shouldn't have come here."

Finally, John thought with relief, Sherlock had come to his senses and realised the absurdity of this decision; they were like criminals, scaling walls and breaking into poor women's flats, even if this woman was a pathologist who probably wouldn't complain to seeing Sherlock in her bedroom.

"Last time," Sherlock continued with absolute seriousness, making John's eyes widen, "There was a snag in my entering. I had come to gather a... sample, Molly had foolishly taken home, but in the darkness she thought I was a stalker and threatened to call the police if I didn't leave. This was before she hit me with a broom. She still doesn't know it was me." His audacity was astounding, as was the way he said it as if it were an everyday occurrence. John hoped it wasn't.

John's relief promptly evaporated.

"I cannot believe-" he began, but Sherlock interrupted him,

"No time for your sentimental moral lectures, John." he passed the bottle of nail polish to John, who tucked it away in a pocket.

Molly began to murmur more loudly, and fragments of recognisable speech passed through her lips.

"Sergei-Trenchcoat...no...won't go...don't wanna...talk..."

To John it was all a lot of mumbo-jumbo, but it seemed to alert something in Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes and returned to Molly quizzically. John rolled his eyes, but nevertheless, stayed put. He was curious to see how Sherlock would interact with someone in such a vulnerable position as Molly; he wasn't very good at those sorts of things.

* * *

Molly was breathing feverently as Sherlock placed two cool fingers on her damp neck. Her pulse was raised, as to be expected during a nightmare. It wasn't so much the nightmare that concerned him - Molly was a grown woman and would be able to handle them - but rather the content. Her subconscious seemed to be reminding her of her encounter with the Russian man at the restaurant, and he wondered why it affected her so much.

"...quick shag?!" Molly muttered, frowning, and for a second, a smile tugged at Sherlock's lips; she certainly had her standards.

He wouldn't stay long, she might wake up and that would be unwanted. Sherlock wanted to stay on good terms with Molly, for... the sake of entry to the morgue, of course.

* * *

Molly tried to tear the blindfold off. It was uncomfortably dark and sweaty in her dream, and it felt as if some giant being was breathing down on top of her, yet underneath the sweaty stench, there was a familiar, lingering perfume of expensive soap and fresh air. Molly couldn't place it, but she certainly didn't mind it.

Just then, a light, feathery touch on her neck made Molly aware of how this was just a dream; she was still affected by things in the real world. She could wake up. So she willed herself to, and, she surfaced.

Stretching out her coiled muscles, and noting the dry taste in her mouth, Molly saw that her small yellow lamp was on. Funny; she was sure she'd switched it off before she slept.

Her eyes were bleary as she put two legs on the ground and stood up. She rubbed them, yawned, and then looked in puzzlement at the bedside table. The edge of a dark navy scarf was resting on it, obscuring her alarm clock.

Looking up, Molly screamed.

* * *

There were very few times in which Sherlock felt a form of awkwardness, but this was one of them. John was so embarrassed his mouth seemed to be twisted into a permanent apologetic grimace.

Molly was pacing around the room, her hair flyaway and eyes tired.

"What, how and why on earth are you here?" she kept demanding of Sherlock, and then sighing when he launched into an impassive explanation.

"You know what, I'm not even surprised," she said quietly, but then added, "Sherlock, you could've just asked if you wanted something, not barging into my flat at all hours of the morning, and see me sleeping!" At this last part a tinge of red dusted her cheeks.

Sherlock said nothing, but his look told her he had no idea why she was so affronted.

"I apologise, Molly," he said finally, formally, but with no hint of malice. Molly knew that was all she would get, so she accepted it.

"He really is... sorry, I mean," John said to her quietly, "Even if it doesn't seem like it. Sherlock's always been brash, and it's hard for him to recognise when he's gone too far sometimes." He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, before shooting a glare at Sherlock and shuffling out of the bedroom.

"I'll show you out," Molly said tiredly, but not before asking Sherlock what he had taken. He seemed reluctant to say what, but finally said it was one of her nail polishes. Molly raised her eyebrows at his odd choice, but didn't ask; she was too tired, and strangely didn't care all that much.

At the door, John gave her one last apologetic look before going. Sherlock went to follow, but something compelled him to stop and he turned to Molly with piercing eyes.

"Have you been very tired recently?"

A blank expression graced Molly's features; was Sherlock _concerned _for her? She wasn't aware of him ever voicing 'trivial' matters like this before.

"Quite, I suppose..." Molly hesitated, wondering what Sherlock wanted. Maybe he would demand her to rest up so that she'd be ready for more work, no, catering to him, in the morgue.

"You have quite a pale complexion...flaky nails..." He sounded like he was giving a medical examination.

"I'm sure it's just tiredness from work," Molly replied, as Sherlock tightened his scarf.

His last remark before he left her flat was,

"...Brighton? Tell your brother he wants to stop asking his sister for favours; her services are required elsewhere." Sherlock swept out with a smirk, leaving Molly with an unwanted smile.

She shut the door and slunk back to bed; her train to Brighton was leaving in four hours.

* * *

"Sherlock," said John trying to catch up with the weaving maniac as they made their way down crowded streets, "In Molly's kitchen, did you see the red-sealed env-"

But his words were swallowed up by a swell of yet more ordinary people going about their daily lives. Sherlock had disappeared up ahead, and John thought, nevermind; there was no point telling him now - he just wouldn't listen.

Molly had packed the few things she would need, including a gift she had gotten for Dylan.

She didn't notice the wax-sealed envelope she picked up with it, and then deposited into her bag.

Her neighbour, old Ms Bellamy, had promised to look after Toby for the short duration of Molly's stay.

* * *

Kings Cross Station was unremarkably packed as usual. Molly smiled at the hoards of teenagers lining up to take photos at the sign on the wall reading 'Platform-9-and-3-quarters'. Then, the announcement of her train pulled her attention away and she quietly boarded it.

A few minutes would always pass before the train departed, and Molly spent them studying the wide-arched station out of the window. Her eyes caught a flash of someone weaving through crowds in what looked like a Belstaff and navy scarf.

They moved with articulate, fluid intent and spent no time in boarding her train, having offered something to the guard. Molly strained to catch their identity, her breath catching. Surely not...?

And yet,

"Sorry to interrupt your journey, Ms Hooper, but this is for you."

The others on the train began a whisper which snaked past Molly and down the carriage;

"Is that Sherlock Holmes?"

Great. The last person Molly wanted to see was standing rigidly in front of her, with an expression like carved marble.

* * *

**Thank you to everyone who reads _Vertigo_! This chapter wasn't as good as I thought it could be, and I wish it could've been better.  
I can't believe it's 2014 already, so happy new year! Also, Sherlock is back today, the end of an era of waiting :D Please review as usual and offer constructive criticism!**


	5. Chapter Five

**Vertigo**

**Chapter five**

"Why are you always everywhere I am, Sherlock?" was the first thing Molly said to the cool-gazed, haughty-faced detective.

"Am not," Sherlock retorted, but then remembered that most of his recent excursions seemed to include Molly... or Molly's flat... or Molly's possessions. He struggled to come up with a suitable refrain, before settling on,

"Excuse me for investigating a potential lead. Anyway don't make so much noise Molly, I don't want everyone knowing I'm here," he loosened the cuffs of his shirt under his coat.

Sherlock appeared oblivious to the multitude of stares from people seated near Molly.

"I think they already know," she pointed out.

Great. More attention. She already looked like a scarecrow after her rude awakening during the night, and now Sherlock was prancing around like a prize jackass pretending he didn't enjoy all the awed stares fellow passengers were bestowing upon him.

"Molly, come with me," he instructed, his cold fingers latching onto hers. His grip was delicate, and a shiver went down Molly's spine. She pulled back self-consciously.

"Why?"

"No questions," he said firmly, and Molly could detect the urgency under his tone. Sherlock rarely spoke to her like this. She stood up reluctantly.

"Go where?" she asked stubbornly, resolving to know _where _Sherlock was taking her before she trotted off like a lovesick puppy.

He pulled at her hand more insistently,

"Only to another carriage."

"OK," she relented, "But only for a min-"

Her words were drowned out by the exclamation of a particularly large woman, who had suddenly and inexplicably barricaded herself between Molly and Sherlock.

"Excuse me," he said frostily; in Molly's limited line of vision she could only see his ice-blue eyes narrowing from the unwanted intrusion.

"What do you think you are doing?" demanded the woman in a clumsy accent proportionate to her size; Molly swore she could hear a thick Russian twinge in there somewhere.

"Hm?" Sherlock inquired politely, though his eyes were still narrowed, and flashing now.

What audacity this ogreish woman had, he thought, barging into his and Molly's conversation. Nevertheless, he kept a calm reserve.

"Why are you harrrrassing this poorrr woman?" she said brusquely, the 'r's rolling off her tongue like unstable knives.

Molly took a step closer to Sherlock instinctively, but the woman blocked her way again. Sherlock was unfazed.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said dismissively, "Molly-"

"Leave herrr alone you vile wrrretch!" the woman crowed theatrically like something from a pantomime and Molly's eyes transformed themselves into dish plates. Sherlock's temper got the better of him and his eyes filled with ire.

"I suggest you turn around and mind your own business, and don't think for a second I don't know what you're trying to do," he said, his threat-filled words as sharp as his cheekbones.

Molly didn't know what Sherlock thought of the woman's true intentions (his deductions had obviously told him that) but she _could _tell the woman was becoming desperate. The fat wobbled around her non-existent jawline as she withdrew a half-empty bottle of water from her handbag and proceeded to _throw it all over Sherlock._

Molly emitted a stunned squeak and clapped a hand over her mouth. The woman seemed to realise the consequences of her actions and hurried away into the next carriage, a scowl slipping on to her hefty face before she disappeared.

Molly approached Sherlock cautiously. The detective had closed his eyes as soon as the water hit him and remained that way even after the woman had gone.

"Sherlock..." Molly said, and put her fingers out. Sherlock opened his eyes and his lip curled.

"What an unpleasant experience," he commented dryly, apparently unaware of the water that drenched his hair, skin and clothes. Tiny droplets clung to his dark copper curls and wound their way along his prominently clenched facial muscles. Still, he made no movements.

"Sherlock! Go and get dry, you'll catch something!" Molly chastised in horror, imagining a wet Sherlock at death's door.

He gave her a self-satisfied smirk.

"A little bit of water never hurt anyone; besides, I've been covered in worse," he remarked and ran a damp hand through his sopping-wet hair while loosening his scarf, causing more droplets to run down his shirt.

Molly couldn't tear her eyes away from the locks of glistening hair that tumbled over and became plastered against Sherlock's pale forehead. He watched her reddening cheeks with amusement.

"Interesting..." he uttered - Was that a hint of narcissism Molly detected? - and she could've kicked the insufferable sod.

Then he grabbed her hand and said,

"There's a toilet in the end partition of this carriage," before dragging her and her bag off down the carriage and through a set of automatic doors, to the dingy compartment at the very end of the train.

She didn't question why he needed to take her along too. She had become accustomed to being a lapdog of sorts, though it didn't please her.

* * *

"Stay out here," he instructed her, and then unbuttoned and handed her his Belstaff, on which the water had rolled off in relaxed torrents.

"Take care of this," he warned lightly, and flashed her a fleeting smile. "Now stay."

He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and began to unbutton it too, before shutting the toilet door, much to Molly's disappointment.

* * *

Molly clicked her tongue against the roof of her mind absentmindedly, noting how a sweet, almost fruity smell wafted around her. Did it come from Sherlock's Belstaff? Unlikely. Sherlock wouldn't wear such a cheap-smelling, not to mention feminine scent. She sniffed curiously, and then a chuckle passed through her lips. Followed by another. And another.

Soon, she had erupted into full-on giggles. She tried to stifle them by clamping a hand over her mouth, but this only made the sleeve of the Belstaff hit her in the face. That didn't help.

Molly doubled over in helpless mirth, though it was beginning to scare her. And all through it, that underlying fruity scent stole around her person and made her feel nauseous through the laughing.

"Molly?" came Sherlock from behind the toilet door, his voice rising and falling with the _gush _of running water from the tap.

Molly couldn't answer, only laughed harder as images of Sherlock being drenched by that insistent women surfaced.

She was forced to loll against the partition wall from lack of breath, the Belstaff still clutched to her chest. Finally, Sherlock opened the toilet door, his shirt once more done up and his still-damp hair slicked back, accentuating the contours of his face. Molly noticed all of this even in her mindless, giggling state, and if anything it made her wheeze even harder.

Upon seeing her, he adopted a concerned expression.

"What's so funny, Ms Hooper?" he remarked, like she was a little child laughing at a dirty joke. She could've very well been.

"You... You..." she spluttered, "and the water..." she doubled up again, tears endlessly pooling from her crinkled eyes. Sherlock would have thought she looked... suitably attention-worthy, if he had not been too busy sniffing the air.

Molly was not so far gone that she didn't take heed of Sherlock's sniffer-dog impression.

"You're like a dog!" she giggled, almost drunk. Sherlock smiled at her quickly before quickly wrapping one hand around her waist and steering her to the side.

"Molly, stay here if you please," he said gently, before returning to his nasal pursuits.

"What... are you doing?" she said in between chuckles.

"Can you smell that?" he asked her, placing one finger on the bridge of his nose.

"It's... frui.. she sniggered like a schoolgirl, "Fruity..."

"Or nitrous oxide - commonly emits a fruity smell in pharmaceutical usage," Sherlock stated, twirling round. He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes; "There."

He strode over to where Molly had been standing moments before and from the curtain of the train partition window he withdrew a small canister.

"Nitrous oxide. Also known as laughing gas." He looked at Molly keenly, and was about to launch into a scientific explanation before thinking better of it.

She was still half-laughing, half-gasping as he returned and quietly withdrew the Belstaff from her grasp before shrugging it on.

"We should go," he said firmly, "Before the nitrous oxide has any more adverse side effects. Or worse," he added, "Starts to affect me." He shuddered with dread at the idea. He was bad enough when he was drunk.

Molly only looked at him with a stupid half-grin on her face, and wouldn't stop giggling. Or move when he pulled her arm.

Too much exposure to the laughing gas at such a high concentration would not do her any good. In desperation, Sherlock resorted to the one thing he knew would work.

"You're not going to stop laughing, are you?" he sighed. She shook her, spluttering in response.

"In which case, Molly Hooper, forgive me for this."

He bent over and brushed his lips gently against hers, lingering for just a moment.

Ignoring the passing spark, he withdrew and thought about if he had done it right. Surely he had, knowing that it wasn't the hardest of actions, yet one that still filled him with trepidation.

By doing this, Sherlock was undoubtedly digging his own grave.

Then, Molly promptly passed out, leaving Sherlock to allow himself a moment of ironic yet bitter smugness,

_You certainly do have an effect, don't you, Mr Holmes?_

He resisted the distracting urge to do it again.

* * *

Molly cracked open one eye. She could only hear Sherlock's breathing among the loud throng of other noises - probably other passengers - and see the rise and fall of his chest which accompanied the rhythmic noise. It was very annoying.

Before, when she'd tried to stretch out and tap Sherlock on the sleeve, he'd glared her into silence, only asking for her phone brusquely and then ordering her to rest more.

Now, after ten minutes of being bored out of her skull from 'resting' in the cafe at Brighton Station, and being forced to synchronise her breathing with Sherlock's out of desperation for something to do, she ventured a comment.

"Why was there nitrous oxide on a train to Brighton?"

Sherlock glanced at her thoughtfully, apparently no longer brooding. She smiled tentatively and sat up fully.

"I've called a cab," he remarked before tapping his fingers against the table edge in preparation for answering Molly's question.

"I don't exactly know the full reason," he admitted finally, and Molly saw it irked him.

"It's OK..." she said gently, "Laughing's not all that bad."

He looked at her in amusement, and handed her back her mobile.

"Why were you so irked before?" she said, studying his profile; he was leant awkwardly against his chair, obviously itching to get up and go somewhere. Anywhere. Away from her and the weird things that kept happening maybe, Molly thought, but she knew they were probably intriguing him instead.

He paused before answering,

"My deductions are _always _correct. Highly valued. And yet, when it comes to the insufferable chasm that is human interaction, they often fall flat."

"What do you mean?" Molly was confused at Sherlock's cryptic words.

"When I... initiated that contact between us, it was a carefully thought-out action at my expense to ensure I could get us out of there immediately, yet it didn't work out how I anticipated..." he murmured, frowning.

Molly shot him a half-amused, half-puzzled look; only somewhat understanding his elaborate, and quite frankly, ostentatious wordplay. Couldn't he speak normal English for once?

"You mean, when you kissed me," she said slowly like a translator, "It wasn't like how you expected?" Her heart jumped a little; this could be it. The pivotal moment in which Sherlock realised-

"Yes. I calculated that the shock of my action would cause your hormones to short-circuit leading to you passing out. Which you did, but not from my kiss. It was in fact from..." He leapt up in sudden realisation, narrowly missing the fiery glares Molly was sending his way.

_Stupid Sherlock, _she thought, _Always so full of his bloody self, and bloody deductions, and not having normal emotions like a normal human and-_

"For you," he surfaced from his theorising to fish in his pocket and withdraw an object.

In still-fuming silence Molly stuck out her hand to receive the small box he thrust at her.

"John said I had to get you a gift. To say sorry for... 'breaking into your flat at an ungodly hour'," Sherlock offered exaggerated air quotations for the last part, making Molly break out into a small smile, despite her mood.

"You must know I'm not good at giving gifts," Sherlock said more gently, and Molly nodded.

"All Mycroft's fault... who would ever think it funny to persuade a young child to give his mother a dissected frog for Christmas..." he muttered afterwards.

Molly frowned, and looked more closely at the gift in question. It was a small box, not wrapped (that was to be expected) and had a velvet covering.

She resorted to rattling the box in a sort of drunken stupor, blaming it on tiredness overworking her cobwebbed brain. Sherlock, normally the receiver of puzzling looks, presented one to Molly; his face, unaccustomed to such an expression, held it with distaste.

"Is it like a... tracking device?" Molly offered a sort of humourous relief from the stiff and heavy air that enshrouded them both. Predictably, it fell flat.

Sherlock arched a brow.

"Why would you say that?"

"Y'know, 'cos you always seem to be following me around these days," Molly lamented, though it was a flattered lament.

Cautiously she opened the box, aware of Sherlock's gaze fixed on her trembling hands.

"What is this?" she asked him, more venom seeping into her question than she intended. Thankfully he either didn't notice, mistook it for gratitude or ignored it.

"Iron tablets," he said monotonously, "I chose them myself."

"Wha-" Molly spluttered, trying to keep in simultaneous tears and laughter. She was really off her head now; Sherlock's gift of _iron tablets _having pushed her over the edge.

"But why?" she managed, clutching the box.

Sherlock looked at her as if she had just asked what the capital of Britain was.

"Isn't it obvious? Your pale complexion, excessive tiredness and flaking nails indicate a middling case of iron deficiency. Furthermore, I have deducted that your recent bout of fainting was caused by this deficiency."

Molly's countenance was one of bamboozlement. He, in turn, wore a look of prestigious well-meaning.

Neither seemed eager to carry on the conversation, until Sherlock said, without any embarrassment,

"I thought you might benefit from them, and since it appears to be... y_our time of the month,_" at this he had the decency to drop his tone, thought it still discomforted Molly.

"You can't go around spouting stuff like that!" she said, embarrassment welling up inside; thankfully no one else in the cafe seemed to have heard Sherlock.

"I thought you, Molly, were accustomed to people being upfront with you," he replied obstinately.

"Yes, but..." she trailed off, the sincere but by no means humble aura Sherlock radiated setting her off into a stream of frenzied giggles.

He regarded her with alarm, his expression projecting the way in which his mind was evidently working to come up with an explanation for Molly's sporadic emotions.

"I was in the knowledge that any effects of the laughing gas should've been dispelled by now," he said slowly.

"You thought... to apologise..." she spluttered, trying to keep in the laughter. Instead it escaped on a periodically nervous loop, only intensified when she caught Sherlock's bored glare.

"Do you want me to repeat my... earlier actions?" he said, eyebrows raised.

"Well-" Molly made a big show of deliberating, just to see Sherlock on edge.

There was a _beep _from her phone.

"Cab's here," Sherlock said with relief and Molly let him be, more concerned about learning what was causing all these recent happenings.

* * *

**Hope this chapter was OK - I know there was a lot of dialogue XD Please continue to review, fav, follow, and thanks!  
**


	6. Chapter Six

**Vertigo**

**Chapter six**

For some reason, cab drivers in Brighton were a whole lot more short-tempered than in London, the evidence of this being the violet bruise that bloomed from one end of Sherlock's cheek to the other. Not forgetting the delightful split lip too.

"It's superficial," Molly had said wearily, swatting at the impatient man with her tissues.

"Yes, yes, I know," he replied, "Makes no difference anyway, _I _still won."

"It was not a competition!" Molly hissed, nearly poking Sherlock's eye out with her forceful dabbing. He winced and she hastily slowed down, giving a few more gentle rubs with the tissues before backing down.

"We'll put arnica on the bruise when we get to Sam's," she stated, huffing when Sherlock shot her a look: _It's like my mother's here._

"This way," she said talking hold of his arm, and he said,

"I know, I saw the directions written on that note in your flat," but made no movement to free his arm. He got the feeling Molly would go on a rampage if he did, probably thinking he would go off and get hit again. It _wasn't _his fault. He had tried to be nice to the cab driver, exchange 'social pleasantries', but Molly obviously didn't think so. Neither had the cab driver, since he had let Sherlock know exactly what he thought. Physically.

"You can't just tell him to keep the change for the fare 'cos '_he might need it to get something for those hemorrhoids'_!" Molly had accosted him. Sighing, Sherlock remembered how these conversations were becoming more and more commonplace.

"I was being friendly," he retorted.

"Oh, it doesn't matter. He punched you, and you've learnt a valuable life lesson."

"Really?"

"Yes. That you're a consulting detective, not a doctor."

Hm.

"Here we are," mumbled Molly, pressing the doorbell once they'd arrived. Sherlock saw that Molly's brother lived in a flat rather like hers, on the second floor with brocade curtains that drifted through the open window, reminding him unwillingly of his breaking-and-entering habit. Maybe it ran in the family to have such unpleasant articles of cloth covering the windows.

"Who is it?" came the muffled response. Molly blinked in surprise at her brother's wary tones, never knowing him before to be so cautious when answering the door. Or young sounding.

"Molly-"

"-and Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock put in, bobbing his head in self-absorbment. Molly sighed; _Yeah, and the man with the intelligence of a thousand computers but the social skills of a child is here to pay you a visit, _she thought.

Poor Sam.

The buzzer was pressed on Sam's end and the door opened furtively. Sherlock wasted no time in gliding swiftly up the stars like a transient being despite his bruised face; Molly stumbled behind, still attached to his arm.

The door to Sam's flat opened to reveal a small boy, dressed in miniature pinstripe pyjamas, and holding an oversized umbrella, blinking up at them with impassive eyes.

"Dylan!" Molly cried, hurrying forward to hug her nephew. He kissed her cheek delicately before fixating his gaze on Sherlock, who was staring back with a bemused expression.

"You didn't tell me your nephew was in fact a tiny Mycroft," he remarked with a sly grin.

"I didn't tell you I had a nephew," Molly said, "In fact, I didn't tell you that you could come and stay here with me!"

Sherlock appeared not to hear her, instead turning his attention to Dylan.

"You're Molly's nephew."

"Yes."

"You're five."

"Six in two months."

"Can I come in?"

"Maybe."

The two turned to see Molly stifling laughter. She couldn't believe how endearing yet comfortable their stilted conversation was. Dylan really was a lot like Sherlock, except without the massive intellect and big-headedness.

"Something funny?" Sherlock said, peering down at Molly. His bruise was getting worse, tendrils of black sneaking further along the bridge of his nose. Plus his split lip was more of gash on his mouth now.

"Dylan, we're coming in. Sherlock here needs seeing too - thought he could outwit a Brighton cabbie," Molly said dryly, dragging the unprotesting Sherlock into the flat to the kitchen.

"Where's your father?" she whispered to Dylan, who shut the door behind them and then shuffled into the kitchen too.

"In the bedroom. Doing adult stuff," he twisted his small mouth in childish distaste.

"And your mum?" Molly hoped with a feeling of dread she wasn't in the bedroom with Sam, doing 'adult stuff'.

"Out. She's-"

"Molly, my face," Sherlock interrupted, grimacing when Molly elbowed him for cutting over Dylan. Her nephew seemed unabashed, merely regarding Sherlock with a glare.

"You shouldn't interrupt me. That isn't what I'd expected of a 'tective," he stated with all seriousness. Sherlock turned his head to hide the smile that drifted by.

"Here," said Molly, laying down her bag. She rummaged around in it, producing a tube of arnica cream which she brandished at Sherlock menacingly.

"Time to sort that bruise out." It took a couple of minutes to rub the arnica into Sherlock's bruise, with only an occasional flinch or three from him accompanying.

Then the split lip was attended too, this time by Sherlock himself, and Molly turned her attention to Dylan who was still standing in the doorway. The door to his parent's room had opened and a tall figure slunk through.

"Sam!" Molly smiled widely; her brother's shadow slipped back, startled and Molly blinked in puzzlement.

"It's me, Molly," she ventured and Sam came forward, giving her a sudden hug.

"It's good to see ya, Molls," his voice was not as cheery as usual. In fact, it sounded a little more older - and wearier.

"I would advise you to keep a closer eye on your son, should he take to answering the door to any random stranger," Sherlock advised impetuously. He was perched on the kitchen counter, his absurdly long limbs cooped up on a kitchen chair.

"Like you, y'mean?" Molly muttered, looking sideways at Sam. He looked quite startled.

"Molly, did you know that this tramp had followed you up here?" Sam nudged Molly. She gaped at his rudeness.

"Sam! What kind of tramp wears a posh suit and looks like Sherlock Holmes?" she whispered fiercely, aware that Sherlock was studying their dynamic with an interested stare. He didn't appear bothered by Sam's exclamation.

Sam did a double take. "You mean-"

"That's Sherlock Holmes?! I didn't realise... I mean, his face..." Sam gave Sherlock an awkward grin.

"Referring to me in third person does not mean I can't hear you," Sherlock remarked.

Molly blushed.

"Excuse us a minute, Sherlock," she smiled before bundling Sam through the kitchen door and shutting it, leaving the detective to contend the benefits of a staring competition with the lamp-eyed five year old in front of him.

"Look, Molls, I thought you were coming to stay here by yourself, not bringing some Scotland Yard inspector bloke as well."

"He's not Scotland Yard, he's the World's Only Consulting Detective." Molly bit her lip in shame at her childish correction, not being able to pinpoint what caused it. Maybe Sherlock's constant reaffirmations were rubbing off on her; after only a day.

"Whatever he is, I wish you would tell me before bringing your boyfriend along too."

Molly blushed even more.

"He's not my boyfriend, we're... friends." Sam raised one eyebrow.

"OK."

Molly huffed and folded her arms, while her brother rubbed the back of his head.

"Look, it's fine, okay? I don't mind, as long as you're able to mind Dylan sometimes."

"I thought I was minding Dylan while you and Laurie went to visit her aunt in the hospice..." Molly quizzed.

"Oh, you see Laurie's aunt suddenly got worse so she had to dash off a couple of days ago," said Sam hurriedly, "But it would be nice for Dylan to see his aunt... and her, boyfriend," he cajoled.

"He's not my-"

But Molly was interrupted by the opening of the kitchen door, which sent her and Sam tumbling out of its way. Thankfully, Sherlock caught her arm before she fell, and she held onto Sam. Her brother grinned like he usually did.

"You've got more energy than Dylan," he directed at Sherlock, who looked suitably pleased. Then, unsure if it was a compliment or not.

"Molly, are you by any chance hungry?" Sam quipped, his stomach giving an affirmative rumble. Molly rolled her eyes;

"Help me get lunch," she grabbed Sherlock's arm again, and steered him into the kitchen.

* * *

Preparing lunch with Sherlock Holmes would've sent Jamie Oliver into a downwards spiral of depression or reduced him to tears. Molly would _never_ do it again.

He had poked the ingredients. Sampled them with a little finger. Sniffed them. Studied what would happen if he "added this to this and applied-". Molly had had to remind him several times it was cooking, _not _a science experiment.

At least their butterbean soup was edible, if not a little lumpy. Sherlock had attempted puree the ingredients in the microwave instead of the food processor. But Molly had managed. Sherlock wouldn't eat however, insisting that he wasn't hungry.

"That was... nice," Sam offered after he had finished. Sherlock raised an eyebrow,

"I'm not fooled by your lie, but I appreciate the sentiment." Sam chuckled.

"I need to go out for a bit, see ya later." He kissed Molly and Dylan, nodded to Sherlock and left in a hurry. Molly was slightly concerned for his wellbeing, but then, weren't all sisters supposed to be?

"Are you still a pafologis'?" inquired Dylan keenly. Molly smiled nervously. Her nephew knew the name of her job, but not the ins and outs of it. Despite his mature aura, he was only five; a little young to know.

"Yes, and I'm still studying those garden paths!" she made her laugh sound bright and breezy. It came out sounding more like she had indigestion.

Sherlock knew she was lying and he frowned; what was her cause for that?

Ignoring Molly's cut throat signal he said pompously,

"Molly, I'm sure you haven't forgotten that Pathology is the study o-"

"Right!" shouted Molly, startling Dylan, who was now watching TV. "Time to show Sherlock where we're staying!"

"But we're staying here," deadpanned Sherlock, resisting Molly's dragging attempts.

"Just come with me," she hissed and he finally relented, letting her push him into what must have been the spare room.

"You can't tell a five year old something like that," she scolded, "and knowing you, Dylan would've had nightmares for a long time."

"If he's anything like Mycroft then-" Sherlock muttered, but Molly interrupted him,

"There's only one bed, and it's a single." She blew air out of her cheeks nervously.

Sherlock blinked, "And?"

"Well, we can't both sleep in it, we won't fit!" Molly imagined Sherlock's bony limbs digging into her and forcing her out the bed at every opportunity. Not to mention the awkwardness of the whole idea; not that Sherlock would think much about that side.

"I'll sleep here," he pointed to a solitary armchair at the end of the bed, draped with a threadbare blanket Molly remembered having when she was younger. Sam had always had an affinity for keeping hold of things of the past, and many of Molly's things from when she was growing up had been given to him or seized against her silent will.

Molly may have been unwilling (well, _realistically _unwilling) to share a bed with Sherlock, but she was by no means heartless.

"You can't sleep there, it's an armchair," she said.

"It's fine. As you probably know Molly, I prefer to sleep - though I seldom do - on my sofa."

"Yes but," Molly hesitated, "That's not even a sofa; it's an armchair."

"It's fine," Sherlock said flippantly, and Molly nodded, her mouth still set in a horizontal display of unhappiness.

* * *

The spare bedroom was now the Sherlock-room. Molly had looked on in astonishment while Sherlock admitted he had maybe, _possibly, _have known he was going on an impromptu trip with Molly and taken a small briefcase stored somewhere in his Belstaff, complete with clothes, violin, the skull from 221B ("Being a high-functioning sociopath does not mean I am exempt from wanting some company") laptop, a few other 'essential items for cases' including a multitude of nicotine patches, and _a bottle of golden syrup. _

"Why on earth do you need that?" Molly demanded, while Sherlock clutched it obstinately.

"Helps me concentrate and satisfies my sweet tooth," he replied peevishly, and it came out funny-sounding in such a deep baritone.

Molly smiled wearily and stored yet another of Sherlock's odd habits away in her mental filing-cabinet dedicated to him. Not that she would tell him that.

* * *

Half-nine at night and Sam was still not back. Molly was busy putting Dylan to bed while Sherlock practiced Bach on the violin. Although the melody was sweet and soothing to Molly's ears, she could sense the impatience behind it. Sherlock's mood had increasingly gone downhill in the evening, probably since he was exhausted. That was obvious in itself by the sunken greyness under his eyes, giving his already angled face a haunting look.

He wouldn't sleep though. Not even when she offered him the bed. Something was keeping him up, but Molly knew better than to ask. She had done her best by forcing him to eat a slice of toast.

Dylan was not helping Sherlock's despondency. Every minute the child had a question, especially when it came to the array of objects Sherlock had placed out on the table in the spare bedroom.

"What's that?"

"A test tube rack."

"Why are the test tubes empty?"

"I haven't done any experiments yet."

"What's that?"

"A skull."

"Whose?"

"Just the last person who kept on asking me questions; not one of his smartest ideas."

At this point Molly bundled the curious Dylan out of the room and off to bed.

When she returned, Sherlock was in the kitchen, hair mussed and shirt-sleeves rolled up. Molly crept in, not wanting to disturb his pacing. He was muttering something about a woman letting him down. Molly didn't want to know.

She observed the pale threading of veins standing out on his pale arms, the thinness of them in general, and hoped he hadn't been letting himself go too much in his obsession over James Moriarty. Ugh. Even saying Jim's name sent a shiver down her spine; how close she'd been to someone who had the ability to extinguish life with a click of the finger. Yet he'd been so charming, so-

"Damn!" Sherlock cursed, breaking her reverie. He'd ploughed into the fridge during his pacing.

"You need to sleep Sherlock," Molly said in her most commanding way, "Your coordination is suffering."

"Thank you GP, I'll be sure to note that," he replied snarkily, fatigue gnawing at the edges of his speech. He hated to admit it; but she was right. He hadn't slept for more than an hour in three days; too much chasing after Russian hitmen, experiments in the lab and breaking-and-entering.

He stumbled to the spare room, aiming for the armchair, but Molly steered him towards the bed.

"It's OK for tonight," she said gently, and without complaint, Sherlock sank down into it. Molly pulled the covers over him, and then left with her pyjamas, deciding to spend this night on the sofa. It would do Sherlock good to sleep solidly; like a child he reacted badly to such an uneven sleep pattern, and his mind would be refreshed in the morning. Maybe he would be in a better mood too.

Once changed, Molly returned to the spare room, leaving the door open while she put her clothes away in the little space Sherlock had left.

He was already drifting off, unwillingly - like every human activity he deemed pointless but had no choice but to carry through with - and his fingers clenched the pillow, then relaxed, then clenched; thinking even in sleep.

Molly was exhausted too, shattered from the experience with nitrous oxide, and decided she would sit on the bed next to Sherlock for a minute.

Only to rest. Not that she wanted to sit next to his sleeping form for a while, or pretend he had come on this trip because he cared about her, or anything. Simply because she was so tired, and the living room was so far away.

Now she was lying down, next to him. Just to hear his breathing for a-

* * *

When Sam stumbled in, one in the morning, no one was there to notice the fresh bruise on his arm. Or his ripped sleeve.

He found the living-room light on, the door to the spare room open. Molly was asleep in the narrow bed, her Sherlock Holmes bloke next to her. The duvet was half-on, half-off them, weaved through her feet and his, and she was shivering. Before Sam could move Sherlock had draped one arm over her, the bony limb apparently poking her in the ribs. She frowned for a moment and then relaxed.

"Friends who share beds, eh?" Sam muttered, closing the door and going to check on Dylan.

When he had gone, Sherlock opened one eye and gazed at Molly in the passing moonlight. He narrowed his eyes, somewhat regretfully, but made no attempts to move away.

* * *

**Another long chapter! Hoped you liked it, and don't forget to review! Sherlock series 3 was awesome, can't believe it's over :'( ****Thanks to everyone who reads, as usual ;)**  



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